Petersburg High School - Missile Yearbook (Petersburg, VA)

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'ibf PETERSBURG HIGH SCHOOL Soon the curly head began to nod, and humming softly so as not to waken the sleeper, she rose slowly and put Eric to sleep in her own dainty bed. She wondered about the big man with his tender smile and determined to keep Eric, if his father were not to be found, to take the place of that little one of hers who had died so long ago. Years passed. The yellow-haired baby was a young man now, and, thanks to the care of his foster-mother, was a very promising musician. He had inherited all of his father's talent, as well as the Cremona. On the advice of his master, Greta was sending him to make his debut into the world of music in New York. Fate had not been so kind to Herr Zeisbourg. After losing his young wife, his son and his cherished violin, he had sunk into the depths of despair. He had traveled far and wide searching for his boy-and had spent all of his meager fortune in the meanwhileg and now he was old and disheartened. At length, on a bleak winter night, he came to the conclu- sion that life really wasn't worth living alone. He had a little money left-enough to buy him one more meal or a ticket to the opening night of a young musician. He chose the latter- not noticing the name, except that it was Eric, So with a pang of longing, he entered the great auditorium. It was packed, and the lights were lowered as he took his place. A slight, youthful figure walked out upon the stage. This figure was Eric, and his heart gave a frightened thump as he gazed upon the sea of faces in front of him, ready to make or to break him. But as he lifted the Crernona to his chin, all of his old confidence returned, and he poured his whole soul into the music. As the opening bars of the Moonlight Sonata swelled out, Frederic gripped the seat in front of him. He knew that tone! He rose to his feet and stretched out a trembling hand. People around him were becoming annoyedg so he resumed his seat with a muttered apology. He listened, enthralled, throughout the pro- gram, and, as the last, lingering notes died away, he heard a. vast sigh breathed over the entire audience. He rose to his feet and made his way to the dressing4room of the young artist, whom he met coming out of the door just as he reached it. Pardon me, Herr, but is your instrument a Cremona? queried the old man in a choked voice. -25-

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-if THE MISSILE Frederic heard his son's terrified cry and then he sank into unconsciousness. When consciousness returned, he found himself in a bare, white-walled room, the walls of which seemed to advance and retreat before his stunned gaze. He uttered a weary sigh, and closed his eyes again. He felt a cool hand on his head and a soft, feminine Voice soothing him. There, there, you'll soon be all right again, this voice said. He opened his aching eyes and whispered, Eric? Now, don't try to talk, replied the voice. But you're not Eric! Where am I? In St. J oseph's Hospital. You were in a train wreck, on the outskirts of Berlin, said the nurse kindly. Where is Eric? whispered Frederic. Eris? Who is that? Eric, my son-my little boy? Was he hurt? Frederic's eyes searched the sweet face above him. I don't know, answered the nurse. He isn't here. We found only you pinned und'er one of the cars. And my Cremona-where is it? again the Weak voice pled. Pm sorry. We saw nothing of it. Now, you must be quiet- you've lost a lot of blood and it isn't good for you to worry. Please try to sleep, and that cool, welcome hand was again laid on his fevered brain. No! No! Frederic spoke wildly. Let me up! I must find them. He strove to raise himself, but the effort was too great, and he sank back in a dead faint. The nurse hurried from the room in search of a doctor, with tears of pity Welling in her kind eyes. Meanwhile, Eric was at the home of one of the passengers on that ill-fated train. She was an opera singer, and had smiled at the little boy across the back of the seat ahead. When the train had crashed, she had picked Eric up, and, having looked in vain for his father, had taken him to her apartment. He was miraculously unhurt, and he clutched in his tiny arms the violin-also unscathed. After feeding the little boy, she took him in her arms and sang to him to cease his crying. But where is my Daddy? wailed the boy. He'll be here soon, answered the woman softly. She was Greta Shultz-better known to the operatic world as The Night- ingale of Berlin. ,

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-01 THE M1ssILE Yes, sir. It was my father'sg he was killed in a train Wreck in Germany years ago, answered Eric sadly. You say-what is you name ?-quick, man ! Frederic gasped out. Eric Ziesbourg, sir, the boy replied kindly. Eris-my son! Praise the Good Father. I am your 'Dad- dyl' cried Frederic. As recognition dawned swiftly on the face of Eric and a light of joy came into his eyes, he enfolded the trembling old frame of his father in his strong, young arms. The voice of the violin had brought the dead to life, and had found the lost. Imagination By Dorothy Baxter Thou, most Welcome guest, For once be ready to rest: From fair and flooded lands of laughter bent, Usurp my generous mind to thy content. I would with Fancy roam With Jollity to her home, To wander, delightfully dreaming at my leisure Of airy nothings and unreproved pleasure. Dreams are but interludes- The finger of Fancy intrudes To turn the pages of the Book of Life, Relieving the dullness-renewing strength for the strife. 6,0-'ifi fi , - V x , .26-